


JayTimBINGO2019: Supernatural Week

by meaninglessblah



Series: JayTimBINGO2019 [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Based On Buzzfeed Unsolved, Depression, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Ghost!Jason, Hunter!Jason, JayTimBINGO2019, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranormal Investigators, demon!Tim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-24 00:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20349436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: A collection of drabbles and short stories for the JayTim Bingo Challenge 2019. Entries for Supernatural Week enclosed!1. "Cigarettes" - Pushy ghost who's very unsubtle about helping you out with your mental health AU2. "Demon" - Demon!Tim and Hunter!Jason3. "Paranormal Investigator" - Buzzfeed Unsolved AU4. "???" - ???5. "???" - ???





	1. Cigarettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Cigarettes" - Ghost!Jason AU

Tim’s pretty sure his new apartment is haunted. He’s only been here for four months, but he’s kind of the opinion that you need at least half a year to definitively determine that your new place is possessed by a tormented spirit. 

And honestly, he hadn’t noticed anything for the first few weeks. He’s seen a plethora of crappy B-grade horror films during movie nights at the Manor, so he knows catching the early signs is important to nip the whole demonic infestation in the bud. He wonders, not for the first time, if Superman could exorcise an entity, or if he’d have to call in a specialist. There’s not a lot that Superman can’t do, but Tim would like his apartment to stay in-tact; he’s not a huge fan of the ‘there's no demonic infestation if there’s no apartment to infest’ mentality that some of the more outspoken metas prefer. 

Besides, this move was supposed to put some distance between him and the capes. All of them. Metas and the regular bat-and-bird assholes. 

Tim pads into the kitchen, past his entirely aesthetic refrigerator, and pauses on the cold tile. Casts a glance at the handful of bowls and forks littering the sink (and littering is the most apt word, because Tim hasn’t had the motivation to clean them for nearly three weeks) and reaches up to tug a clean mug from the nearest cabinet. Mentally notes that he’ll have to rinse at least some of them in a few days if he wants to have eating vessels at his disposal again. 

He sidesteps the precarious tower of unpacked boxes in the centre of the tile that Dick had been kind enough to help move for him, and flicks on the electric kettle. Then he pinches a packet of instant ramen from the pantry and upends it into the mug. 

Tim’s leaning up against the corner counter when he spots the message on his fridge. It’s emblazoned across the brushed silver steel in obnoxiously tacky multicolored fridge magnets. 

_ DO YOUR DISHES. _

It’s probably a message from Damian. The brat had probably left it on his way out after he’d finished letting Dick rope him into helping Tim move out of Gotham. If still being able to see the twinkling lights of Arkham from your bathroom window counts as ‘out of Gotham’. 

Tim doesn’t remember having seen the message before though. He wouldn’t put it past himself to not notice. Tim’s mind’s been… elsewhere lately, so glossing over details has kind of become his modus operandi. So he turns back to the kettle and pours a healthy dose of chicken flavouring over his ramen before retreating back to his bedroom. 

He’s awoken by his fifth alarm, and Tim reaches over to his bedside table, sifting through the handful of discarded ex-ramen mugs to fumble his pill dispenser into his palm. 

Tim leans back into his pillows, tilting the transparent orange container back and forth to watch the abundance of white pills shuffle up and down the cylinder. Then he scrunches his face into a sour expression, drops it back onto his end table, and turns back into his pillows. 

The clatter makes him turn back over. When he does, he pauses, propped up on one elbow, and stares. 

The container is on the floor, rolling gently across the timber. Tim frowns, leans down, and props it back up on the end table with better stability. When it doesn’t immediately upend itself, he nods in quiet victory and buries himself under the quilt. 

It doesn’t muffle the sound of the plastic striking the floorboards again. 

He’s already frowning by the time he emerges, glaring at the offending article for a good minute before he caves and reaches down to snatch it up again. Inspects the pills, as if they’ll finally crack composure and admit they’re a sentient lifeform hellbent on inconveniencing him. 

“Fuck you,” he declares when they don’t, and stoops to drop it into the top drawer with his socks. Then he slams it closed and goes back to sleep. 

It’s midday when Tim awakes next, shuffling into the bathroom in his sweats and socks to relieve himself in the crisp chill of the autumn morning. 

He turns towards the faucet when he’s done, stumbling back in a double take to peer back into his shower. Because the pills he was almost certain had been shut in his bedside drawer three hours ago are nestled in the basket amongst the shampoos and soap. 

Tim stares, and then he wrenches back the shower door to step inside, lifting the orange container from its nest. He turns it over in his palm with a frown, trying to recall the sensation of putting it in the drawer. His memory isn’t all too reliable nowadays, so sometimes he has to go off the vague feeling of muscles straining and over-familiar motions to remind him if he’s done things. 

He remembers putting the pills in the drawer, he thinks. Which doesn’t explain why they’re here, and Tim only has one prescription. Has only _ had _ one prescription since he sat in the free clinic doctor's office and nodded along with tight-jawed rapture to his flowery descriptions of mental fatigue all the way up until Tim had been permitted to go home. Then he’d jammed the pills on his bedside table and vowed he’d stick to taking them. 

He had, for the first week. Then the energy to unpack his apartment had waned to just digging around in half-opened boxes. Then mindlessly flicking through the occasional book or soap opera had devolved to curling up in the soft dark of a quilt for hours at a time, not sleeping, just not moving, not thinking. Then the motivation to order in even semi-nutritious hot takeaway food had slumped into thrice daily serves of instant noodles. 

Tim had stopped taking the pills around the time he’d realised he hadn’t called or messaged a single person in over ninety six hours. For whatever reason - their busy schedules, their intermittent carelessness, or maybe his raw departure from the family - no one had bothered to check in on him, and Tim hadn’t really been able to muster the motivation to care. 

So Tim stands on the icy shower tile and stares at the mostly-full plastic container of antidepressants and frowns to himself. Glances up at the basket of conditioners just to confirm that he’s not hallucinating, and cops a spray of cold water straight into his face. 

He jolts back with an ugly screech, plastering himself against the glass as his fringe soaks and sticks into his eyes immediately. He’s still sputtering incoherently when he wrenches himself out of the harrowing spray, which shuts off immediately when he collapses onto the bathroom floor in shock. 

The shower stares back at him, faucets untouched, and only the faint, damning drip to indicate its guilt. Tim feels a shiver lace through him, presumably because he’s now slick with icy water, and offers a middle finger to the shower gods. 

Then he trudges back out to the kitchen to rifle through a box until he can locate a clean towel. Tim’s scrubbing it irritably through his hair when a splash of colour in the sink catches his eye. 

The obnoxious fridge magnets have moved, seemingly bridging the distance from the fridge to the draining board to spell out _ WASH ME_. Some of his used mugs have even been arranged in a neat pyramid shrine, as if to drive the point home. 

Tim does what any resource-wealthy former vigilante would do. He reviews his security feeds, and determines that no one has been in or out of his apartment since Dick brought some of Alfred’s lasagne over two weeks ago. Which precludes meddling siblings from the short list of feasible explanations, mostly. 

He calls the closest available twenty-four hour plumber to fix his faulty showerhead, and flits around apologetically tidying while the guy tightens the washers and checks his meter and informs him that there’s honestly nothing wrong with it. Tim thanks the man and pays him anyway, and then stands in his living room and stares at the pyramid of mugs on his kitchen counter. 

The thought crosses his mind, and he firmly shoves it back where he found it. His apartment is not haunted. It’s just not new, and things like faulty waterworks and the occasional pill-knocking draught aren’t entirely out of place. 

Tim figures he should make use of his newly repaired shower, since he apparently just paid for repairs. He leaves his sweats on the tile in the doorway, and stands in the hot steam of the shower until his legs get sore, and then he sits with his back to the spray for a bit, just content in the wash of water. When the shower turns itself off without him even reaching for the faucet, he sighs and presses his damp fringe into the warm glass. 

“If you douse me again,” he warns in a petulant but ultimately toneless mutter, “I’m calling a priest.” 

When no reprimanding splash of cold comes from the faucet, Tim unfurls and drags himself to his feet, tucking the nearest towel around his waist. There’s a message waiting for him, inscribed in the condensed fog on the bathroom mirror, and it reads simply, _ SHAVE. _

Tim’s not actually that opposed to spirits. He’s not a complete skeptic (who in their line of work can be absolutely skeptical about anything?) but he’s undecided exactly where on the fence he sits. He’s sort of left the door open to being convinced, but he’s never sought out proof himself either. 

He still stares at the message for a good few minutes, letting the coil of disbelief curl up through his chest and dissipate. Then he reaches up a hand to scrub over the slightly-more-than-stubble lining his jaw. He really has been neglecting his personal hygiene a bit since he moved away from the vigilante lifestyle. 

Tim sighs and lifts the razor from the neat little cup that also holds his toothbrush, and crouches to locate the foam in the vanity cabinet. He goes through the motions in thick, rapturous silence, feeling like there’s eyes on him. 

“Are you always this pushy with your homeowners, or am I just special?” Tim asks the silence, and when nothing responds, he feels a bit stupid for asking. So he lathers up his cheeks and studiously shaves in quiet. He feels a little more human by the time he’s finished patting the aftershave onto the flat panes of his jaw. 

The pills are back on his bedside table when Tim emerges, and he ignores them to cross to the wardrobe, pulling on the first pair of pants he sees, and foregoing the shirt. He doesn’t care how unsubtle this supposed entity is being. He doesn’t owe it obedience. He’s not taking the pills. 

He is hungry though, so he takes the usual weaving route through the towers of boxes to the pantry to make his instant noodle staple. The mi goreng is in the mug and Tim’s just tilting the kettle to pour into it when it flies off the counter. Hits the backsplash with the crack of ceramic at the same moment boiling hot water splashes over the countertop and stains the front of his sweats. Tim shouts, more in surprise than pain, and fumbles the kettle onto the counter. 

“What the fuck,” he says, a little too loudly for someone who supposedly lives alone. He glowers at the shattered pieces of mug amongst the displaced noodles and the slow drip of water down to the tile. Then he stubbornly spins to grab another packet and another mug. 

He gets as far as putting the noodles in the cup this time, before it slides forcefully off the bench. Tim jolts forward to catch it, but it tumbles through his grip and hits the tiles anyway. 

Tim slams his palms down onto the counter and snaps, “What do you want?” 

His empty living room doesn’t answer him, and it just fans the rage ricocheting up through him. He curls his hands into fists, nails scraping faintly, and repeats himself. 

“What do you want, huh? Stop ordering me around. Stop touching my things. Leave me the hell alone. Get out of my house.” 

Nothing answers him, but Tim gets the distinct impression he’s being watched, so he straightens and folds his arms over his chest. There’s no one around to see him yelling at his empty apartment, so why should he care if he looks batshit crazy? 

“You’re obviously trying to make a point. What, you just hate instant noodles, is that it? Tell me what you want or get the hell out.” 

Silence greets him for a few seconds, and then something metallic chimes from over near his front door, and Tim’s head swivels to catch it. There’s the scrape of metal against wood again, like keys jangling, and Tim steps around the counter to approach warily. 

His keys are still in the bowl he left them in, unmoving and undisturbed, but Tim sighs anyway. 

“You want me to go outside? What for?” he asks, turning back to the empty kitchen. His gaze flits from the shattered mug to the puddle of water spread across the bench. His shoulders slump. “No noodles. Right. You want me to get real food. Okay. Okay, I get it now.” 

Tim doesn’t reach for the door. Instead he slumps back against it and presses his forehead to his knees when he hits the floorboards. He focuses on breathing for a few minutes, fixates on the feeling of his lungs expanding and contracting, squeezed between the vice of his knees and the door. 

“I don’t know how I fucked this up.” 

There’s no change in sound other than the hitch of his breath. No tears come, but Tim can feel the ache in his chest anyway. 

“I don’t know how I let it get this bad. I didn’t… I just wanted some space. From everyone. From everything. I thought I was fine, I thought I could deal with it. It wasn’t a problem.” 

Tim could swear he feels a presence hovering over him, but when he looks up his living room is empty still. He heaves a sigh, and closes his eyes. 

“It’s a problem. I know that now. I can see it. I just, I don’t know what to do to make it better. I don’t know how to- to not be _ this_. I feel like I’ve dug myself a hole and I _ don’t _ know how to get out of it.” Tim pries his eyes open and runs a hand back through his hair. “You might not even be real. Maybe I’m just talking to myself, but today’s been a bitch. And yesterday was a bitch. And every day before it has been unbearable, and I don’t want my life to be unbearable anymore. Okay? I don’t want my life to be unbearable anymore.” 

A cold chill slides down his spine like a chunk of ice, and Tim sucks in a sharp breath and straightens against the wood of the door. He hears when his head thunks back against it, feels the vibration tremble down his neck. Lets the air catch in his throat before he exhales it on a shudder. 

“I can do this,” he whispers, and repeats it more firmly. “I can do this. I’m going to do this.” 

He scans the empty room, the way the shadows hug the corners and crevices like they’re hiding someone from him. As if his invisible benefactor will step forth and reveal themselves. But they don’t. 

Tim swallows and pushes himself up off the wood, gets himself back on his feet. “I want to be better,” he declares to the room, and pauses. Then adds, “I’m going to get better.” 

He snatches his keys out of the bowl and yanks open his apartment door. 

* * *

Tim has a mug of coffee for the first time in twelve weeks. 

He sits down on the cold tile, void of packing boxes, pressing his back into the kitchen cabinet and stretching his toes out until his socks are flush against the refrigerator. Cradling the mug between his palm, he inhales the steam and casts his gaze over the neatly alphabetised letters. 

When he can’t stand the silence anymore, he asks, “Do you have something I can call you?” 

His mug is half empty when the letter twitches and slides upwards, plastic scraping softly against the metal. Tim hums and inhales the scent of cigarettes and coffee. 

“J, huh?” he reads, and takes another sip. “Okay. Hello, Jay. My name’s Tim. I have depression, but you already knew that.” He pauses, watches the unmoving letters with rapture. Then his gaze flickers down into his mug. “I wanted to say thank you. For, you know, bothering me, these past weeks. Making me better. Helping me out.” 

When he looks up, two more letters have shifted to join the J in no-man’s land: K and O. 

Tim’s lips curl in a small smile. “OK, gotcha. I know you’re sort of limited in dialogue options, so I’ll try to do most of the talking from now on. But, um. Yeah. Thank you for your help. Here’s the update: I’m doing better.” 

Tim heaves a thick exhale, and feels all the lighter afterwards. 

“I’ve had some bad days, as you know. But you’ve been there to nag me. Making sure I shower and shave and remember to eat. Properly eat, not just ramen.” He pauses to chuckle. “But I’m definitely on the mend. I got my meds changed, so you can keep the old prescription as a memento if you like. These ones are working better, and I’m actually keeping up my therapy appointments. Four weeks this Thursday,” he adds with a hint of pride. “That’s a whole month.” 

The kitchen is still quiet, but Tim doesn’t feel alone, so he takes another sip and ruminates in the silence. 

“I’m, uh, not in the practice of contacting spirits,” Tim admits. “But I think the magnet messages are getting a bit long in the tooth, and I imagine they take a fair amount of effort on your part to pull off, even for a poltergeist.” 

The scent of cigarette smoke grows stronger at that, and Tim inhales with a wrinkled nose. 

“Are you ghost-smoking in my apartment? Are there smoke alarms in your dimension? Is that a thing?” he asks the air, but the aroma doesn’t dim, and Tim takes that as a sign his ghost is listening. So he shrugs. “Well, whatever floats your boat, Jay. My point being, I looked into getting some spirit tech - but frankly, I don’t trust the wholesalers. And I thought perhaps a ouija board was a little disrespectful.” 

One of the mugs drying on the draining board rattles threateningly, so Tim takes that as an affirmation. 

Tim grins, and sets his cup on the tile. “Yeah, I figured. So I contacted an old friend. He, uh, he’s taking a long flight to come meet me, but he’s excited to meet you, Jay. And I don’t know if you’re one of those unfinished business ghosts, or just some shitty mental health poltergeist, but I wanted to return the favour. So he’s going to help me talk to you, and help you talk to me. And maybe I can start to repay you for helping me get my life together. I might not be able to help you get _ your _ life together, but I figure getting your death together might be the next best thing, hmm?” 

Tim lets the silence hang in the air, smiling up at the letters on his fridge. 

“Looking forward to meeting you, Jay.” 


	2. Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Demon" - Demon!Tim and Hunter!Jason AU

The demon over his shoulder has been glaring at him for the past forty-five minutes. 

Not the figurative, conscience-driven demon-on-your-shoulder. (Not that Jason’s ever believed in that crock of shit anyway. It’s always sounded like a cop out for assholes to use, to him. Bad people do bad things because they’re bad people. No point passing the buck onto a mythical angelic or demonic figure.) 

The actual, five-and-a-half foot bundle of sheer hatred and rage that’s currently nestled against the window in the back seat of his impala. Jason’s willing to bet money he hasn’t blinked the whole while they’ve been driving, and if the reflective sheen of light that glances off his narrowed pupils every time they pass under a streetlight is anything to go off, he definitely hasn’t. 

Jason’s hands clench on the steering wheel, and he steels himself to slide his gaze over the rearview mirror, half expecting the demon to blink out of existence whenever he looks back at the road. 

He doesn’t, remaining a tiny stormcloud in his peripheral, a silently judging sentry. 

“Quit glaring at me,” Jason snaps, and the demon doesn’t acknowledge his words except to exhale roughly through his nose. He holds Jason’s gaze for a moment longer before it swivels to stare out the rain-stained window, shoulders hunching in irritation. 

“Leave him alone.” 

Jason glances down at the child in the passenger seat beside him, swamped by the cream leather. His elbow is propped up on the window, cheek scrunched upon his palm as he glares out the windscreen and casts the occasional glance at the side mirror. Keeping an eye on his demon, and not for the right reasons. 

“You don’t know what he is, kid,” Jason warns him, as he has since he bundled the pair of them into his car and pointed them down the interstate. 

“Damian,” the squirt corrects with a sharp snap of teeth, and Jason sighs, reaching over to fumble through the glovebox. The kid retracts his legs with an irritable growl, pressing back into the leather. Jason’s not surprised he doesn’t trust him. He’s just annoyed that that trust is currently resting in the demon on the seat behind them. 

“Damian, right,” Jason murmurs absently, and unearths a water bottle. “You thirsty? Want a drink? There’s some beef jerky in there, I think. Maybe some taffy.” 

Damian glares, but snatches the bottle off him, and Jason returns his hands to the wheel as Damian tilts his head back to take a sip, eyeing him warily. Jason elects to keep his gaze on the road. 

That is, until the kid turns to offer the bottle to his demon-friend. 

“Hey!” Jason bleats, reaching back and over to intercept the bottle before the kid can give it to the human-looking creature on the back seat. “No reaching back there. Stay in your seat.” 

“He could be thirsty!” the kid protests with a violent glare, and Jason meets it with one equally as heated. 

“Seat, now,” he barks, and after a moment of defiance, the kid furls back into the leather. Jason caps the bottle with his teeth and tosses it into the footwell. Then he fixes the demon with a firm glare, glancing occasionally back at the empty stretch of dark road to ensure he doesn’t drive them off it. “Hands,” he orders sharply, with a hint of impatience, nodding to where the cuffs are threaded through the grab handle above the door. 

The demon’s glare heats, but he rolls his wrists, showing Jason his loosely coiled fists - empty of anything the kid could have slipped him - and the glowing brand gleaming on the backs of his hands, reflected in the silver of the cuffs. It’s a rudimentary seal, but it’s more than enough to keep the demon in that body, and that body sitting in that seat. That’s as much as Jason can ask for right now. 

He fixes the demon with a pointed glare that he meets with a challenging raise of his chin, before turning back to the road, satisfied. 

“He’s thirsty,” Damian mumbles after a straight minute of silence. 

“_It’s _ not thirsty,” Jason growls, and Damian hunches his shoulders petulantly. “Besides, how were you even planning on feeding it like that?” 

Damian’s gaze flickers to the side mirror, brow pinching in sympathy, and Jason internally sighs. 

He’d made the executive decision to gag the demon when he’d first begun tracking the creature in Missouri. Jason had followed it for weeks, though Damian hadn’t stepped into the picture until yesterday. It hadn’t been hard to track; a trail of distraught parents, missing children posters, and abduction reports had followed its wake across the Midwest. Jason had been following it since Nebraska, and even then the trail had been growing cold. It was sheer luck that he’d stumbled across a barely day-old abduction in Kentucky, and only careful planning and forethought had led him to Damian on the cusp of his kidnapping. 

Jason had spotted the kid at a truck stop, sat patiently on a park table in an oversized trucker’s coat while the demon inside was charming the attendant. Jason had waited until the creature showed itself, handing Damian a fresh chili dog that he took with ravenous glee. Then he had sprung. 

Getting a demon’s hands bound was almost always paramount to subduing it. If it managed to flick off a quick spell, Jason was practically done for. But he’d been watching this demon for a few days at that point, and knew that he was the rare sort that preferred verbal curses. Maybe that’s why Jason hadn’t seen him physically glamour the child into trusting him. It’d probably only taken a few unsuspecting words onto Damian’s innocent ears, and he’d been stuck pliantly under the demon’s wing ever since - still was, it seemed. 

But knowing as much gave Jason an awful lot of leverage. So when he’d sprung up from behind the maple and slid the strip of cloth between the creature’s grinning lips, he’d gotten a headstart. And Jason had made the most of the initial surprise to grab one clawed, scrambling wrist and bend it behind the creature’s back to where it could scrape the blunt handle of the knife he had pressed into the back of its skull. 

It had stilled, arched into a buck as it had taken stock of the situation, and Jason had opened his mouth to begin the exorcist rites when Damian had overridden him. 

“Let him go,” he’d ordered, uncharacteristically sharp and sure for a child of eleven, and Jason had paused long enough to note the kid was on his feet on the table, edging back towards the ledge of it. That hadn’t worried Jason. The table was at best three feet off the ground. 

The slipway behind it however, was a good fifteen feet tumble, nestled up against the back of the park, and entirely accessible if Damian decided to throw himself down its steep slope. Worse, the concrete runoff, speckled with jagged rocks, ended in a four-lane freeway that was occupied entirely by semi trailers at this hour of the morning. 

Jason had frozen. So had the demon. 

A sharp grunt and a hobbled shake of the demon’s head had given Damian pause, but then his expression had tightened into surety. 

“Let him go,” he’d repeated, and shoved his heel over the empty air. “Or I jump.” 

The demon had made a panicked keening sound around Jason’s strip of t-shirt between its lips, weighing its tongue. Jason had ignored it in favour of fixing the kid with his most reassuring stare. 

“Hey,” he’d started, his tone coaxing. His blood had thrummed high in his veins, and he’d felt the demon twitch in his grip, aching to wrap its hands around its victim. Jason had tightened his hold on its wrist and tried gently, “I got you. It’s not going to hurt you anymore. Just step away from that ledge. Step towards me, that’s it.” 

Damian hadn’t budged an inch, his jade gaze flat and dark in the ambient light. “Let him go.” 

Jason’s lips had quirked in a panicked smile, and he’d heard the shuddering, panicked exhale of the demon in his grip as its gaze had risen to gauge his expression. “It’s not safe there. Come back here. I’ve got it; I’m not letting go. It’s okay, you’re safe now.” 

Damian had shaken his head sharply, jaw tight, and slid back until his entire back foot was dangling. Jason had made a sharp protesting noise that had been echoed fervently by the demon, straining against his hold. 

“I know what he is,” Damian had declared coldly, making Jason frown. “I’m not scared of him. Let him go.” 

“Kid, you don’t know what he’s capable of,” Jason had tried to reason. “Trust me on this. You’ve gotta come with me. You’ve gotta let me take care of you. Your mom and your grandfather are worried sick-” 

The demon had made a scathing grunt of disapproval that had made Jason scowl, and the kid had echoed the sentiment. 

“I’m not going back there,” he’d proclaimed, and Jason had felt exasperation seize him. 

“Kid,” he’d repeated, effecting his best ‘I’m the adult in this situation’ voice, “it’s not safe for you here, with it. I need you to trust me.” 

“I’m _ not _ going back,” Damian had repeated, slowly and furiously, and Jason had fumbled to seize control of the slipping conversation. 

He’d jostled the demon, leveraging its shoulders forward with the fierce grip he’d had on its wrist. It’d earned him a grunt, and then the creature had bowed forward, its free hand snapping out to brace on the table as Jason had skimmed his knife around to rest against the side of its throat. The demon’s gaze had been black, sharp fury for the second it had rested on Jason before returning to Damian. 

“It’s a fucking demon, kid,” Jason had snapped, and Damian hadn’t wavered. “It’s not safe for you to be alone with it. It was going to hurt you.” 

“No, he’s not.” 

Jason had cursed under his breath. “It _ was_, kid, trust me.” 

“He’s not going to hurt me,” Damian had retorted, scowling. “What are you going to do with him? Don’t lie to me,” he’d added when Jason had opened his mouth. 

He seemed like a smart (albeit misled) kid. His grandfather had claimed as much when Jason had interviewed him. Intelligent, disciplined, and pragmatic. Jason had tried to appeal to those innate traits when he’d said, “I’m going to exorcise it.” 

Damian hadn’t flinched. “What does that mean?” he’d demanded in a firm, hard tone. 

“It means the bad in it is going to come out,” Jason had paraphrased awkwardly. 

His brows had pulled into a sharp knit. “Will he die?” 

“_It_,” Jason had emphasised, “won’t be in this body anymore, no.” 

Damian’s lips had curled off his teeth, a snarl ripping up his throat as he’d demanded shrilly, “Let him _ go_!” 

“If I let it go, it’ll kill you, kid!” 

“No, he won’t! He’s been protecting me! He hasn’t hurt me!” 

“He’s a _ demon_, kid. All he does is hurt people.” 

“That’s not true!” And then he’d shifted his weight, his anchored foot snapping into parallel along that dangerous ledge. 

“Fuck!” Jason had snapped, panic lighting him up. His options skittered through his skull like a spinning carnival wheel, and settled on his least favourite solution. “Shit, okay! Okay, I won’t exorcise him.” 

He’d leverage the demon up again, knife still wavering against its neck as he’d forced them a step back from the table. 

“Not killing him,” Jason had reaffirmed, holding Damian’s gaze to convey his sincerity. “But I _ need _ you to get down off that table.” 

“Get your knife off his neck.” 

“No. I’m not bargaining with you, kid-” 

“Damian,” had come the snapped reply. 

“Whatever! Get off the table and we can negotiate, okay? Just, please, don’t fall, for God’s sake.” 

Damian had acquiesced, after meeting and holding the demon’s gaze, and stepped down off the wooden table onto solid ground. Only then did Jason release the breath he’d been holding. 

“Christ,” he huffed, meeting Damian’s stare. “That’s way too dangerous. You can’t be doing that.” 

“Let him go,” Damian had said, sounding like a goddamn broken record to Jason’s ears. 

“I can’t do that. But,” Jason had added when Damian had coiled with ire, “if you get in the car, I won’t exorcise it.” 

“I’m only getting in the car if he comes with me,” came the bargain. 

Jason had growled in the back of his throat, glanced at the empty impala parked not twenty feet away, and glowered down at the eleven-year-old. “If I put it in the back, will you get in the car, please?” 

“In the back seat, not the trunk.” 

“Sure,” Jason had conceded begrudgingly, and when Damian had given an affirming nod, he’d marched the surprisingly pliant demon towards the black chevy. Damian had trailed behind, keeping a negotiable distance between them, beyond Jason’s reach. 

The demon hadn’t put up much resistance, though Jason couldn’t accept that it was for the kid’s sake. Demons were self-serving, malicious bastards on their best days, and downright fiends when they felt like it. Far from it for this demon to have taken a shining to the kid. 

It’d still growled a warning past the gag when Jason had sheathed the knife and produced the cuffs, but all it had taken was a stiff jerk of his head towards the kid watching them, and the demon had reluctantly backed down. Jason still hadn’t been able to work out why. 

It wasn’t until he’d fastened the gag securely at the back of the demon’s head, behind where those hobbled wrists could reach, and slammed the door that Damian had begrudgingly taken the front seat. Then they’d hit the freeway in cloying silence, the milky black of night cloaking them. 

And now Jason had a barely co-operative abductee and a very powerful demonic hostage glaring from his back seat. How he ends up in these situations, he doesn’t know, and he mumbles as much as he drags a hand back through his white-streaked fringe. 

“Look, kid, I don’t know what it told you, but-” 

“He’s not dangerous,” Damian cuts him off in a terse mutter. He doesn’t break his stare with the windscreen. “I told you: he was helping me.” 

“Helping you do what?” 

Damian swallows uncomfortably, and casts the demon a hasty glance. 

“Don’t look at it, kid. Talk to me,” Jason sighs, and Damian swivels to fix him with a burning glare. 

“He took me away from home.” 

Jason rolls his eyes, scoffing. “Yeah, I’m aware of that. Finally, we seem to be on the same page about something.” 

“You don’t get it,” Damian spits, and Jason glances at him from the corner of his eye. 

“Help me understand, then,” he implores quietly, and Damian stills for a moment, searching his earnest gaze. Then his nails hitch into the hem of his sweater, jerking it up to bare his stomach. “Woah, hey!” Jason bleats in protest, and reaches blindly to stop him. The demon makes a muffled protest from the back seat, but Damian simply presses himself back against the cold window and stills. 

Then Jason sees them. The lick of belt-marks on the kid’s skin, laced with precise grouping over his kidneys. Jason winces at the sight of it, gaze flickering up to the mottled purple bruise over one of his ribs, and falling to the yellowing fist-sized stain over his sternum. Damian exhales shakily, glaring as he lowers the sweater. 

“You don’t _ get it_,” he repeats, and Jason does. Damian’s gaze flickers back to the demons’, and Jason follows it. 

There’s something that Jason would call remorse there, a sympathy echoed back from those sharp, gleaming blue eyes. Then it meets Jason’s gaze, and settles into a pained resignation. 

“Did your grandfather do that to you?” Jason asks in a low, hesitant tone, and Damian nods stiffly. He glances back at the demon, gaze cutting. “Did it - _ he_,” Jason amends at Damian’s sharp look, “make you think that?” 

“He didn’t have to,” Damian answers, evidently catching the tail end of the question Jason’s working up to. “It’s been happening for a while. He only arrived two days ago. He _ saved _ me.” 

Jason glances between the pair of them, brow furrowed. Then he turns his gaze to the empty, endless stretch of dark road, jaw flexing. It gnaws at him, spiralling up through his chest, stoked in the silence that Damian is all too content to let linger, until Jason spits, “Okay, fine. Fine!” 

He pulls them off the next exit, steering them towards the blazing neon vacancy sign of the first mom-and-pop motel he spots. Jason parks around the back, kicks the car into park and turns a stern gaze on Damian. 

“Stay here,” he orders, and doesn’t miss when Damian’s gaze flickers to the demon. “I’m not kidding, kid. You’re not going to be able to get those cuffs off him. And if I come back and you’ve tried, I’m exorcising him on principle, understand me?” Jason holds Damian’s petulant scowl. “I’m trusting you to do the right thing here. I’m just going over to that office there to get us a room so you can sleep somewhere decent while we sort this mess out. If you wait for me, and you don’t tamper with that demon, then I’ll consider taking off his cuffs, okay?” 

Damian’s expression lights at that, before it’s swamped by a cold, restrained glare. “Okay,” he agrees, and Jason nods once. 

“Don’t move,” he instructs, and alights from the vehicle. 

The tone he uses with the young receptionist must give her the indication that he’s not here for small talk, because she takes his deposit and exchanges it for a key with little fanfare, sliding a brochure across the counter. When he gets back to the car, not even six minutes later, the kid is still bailed up in the front seat, pointed green gaze following him over the dashboard as he approaches and hauls open the heavy passenger side door. 

He dangles the key on one finger. “Two-oh-seven,” he announces, and lets Damian snatch it from him. He pauses then, glancing back at the demon, and Jason rolls his eyes. 

“He’s coming with us. Get the door.” 

The demon waits pliantly while Jason releases one of the cuffs and extracts him from the car, twisting an arm up behind his back for good measure. They march the short distance from car to motel room door, Jason casting his gaze out for any unwanted onlookers. At this hour of the morning, the carpark is deserted. 

The room inside is draped in swathes of salmon pink and dull turquoise. But there’s two turned down queen beds, and a radiator underneath the front window. Jason strides in before Damian can protest, manoeuvring the demon down into a sit and cuffing his still-bound wrist to the metal. He gets a sharp glare for that, but no other protest. 

Then Jason reaches up, snapping the curtains shut with a flick of his wrists, and sits back on the bedcovers. Damian waits all of three seconds before racing to the creature’s side. The demon softens at his approach, his unbound arm outstretching to pull the boy protectively into his side, tight and possessive. The glare he levels on Jason then is spiteful. 

Jason rolls his eyes. “Okay, kid, I’m all ears.” 

“Take the gag off,” Damian orders immediately, and Jason sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opens his eyes, Damian has one hand inching towards the demon’s hair, where the knot of the gag rests. Jason draws the colt nestled against his ribs, voice rising to a barked alarm as he levels it in the centre of the creature’s chest. 

The demon moves faster than Jason anticipates, lurching forwards and wrapping an arm around the kid in the same moment, pinning him back against the radiator. Damian grunts at the impact, but the demon’s eyes don’t waver, unblinking, from Jason as he shifts his torso in front of the kid. 

Nobody moves for a long, hard minute. 

“Really?” Jason mutters, low and hard, streaked with distaste. “You’re gonna make me shoot a kid to put you down?” 

The demon growls, a tenor rumble that coils up through its chest and catches in the gag. Its blue eyes are blazing, the colours catching in the ink of its hair. Jason swears if he took the time to glance down, its hands would be claws. He keeps his gaze trained on it, just like he’d been taught. 

“Kid, show me your hands,” Jason orders after a terse moment, and the demon looks _ livid _ at that suggestion. When no one moves, Jason lets his tone fall into that whip of a bellow his father had used on him. “Kid, if I’m asking twice, it’s with a bullet.” 

Two small hands snap out on either side of the demon’s ribs, curled into a jaunty, middle-fingered salute. But at least they’re away from that knot. 

Jason snorts and shifts his sights up to the demon’s forehead. He might even be able to plant one in it and miss the kid at this angle, but he can’t be sure. “Charming,” he drawls, and meets the demon’s gaze again. “Alright, let’s keep this peachy. I’m going to ask some questions, and I want yes or no answers, is that clear?” 

After a moment’s hesitation, the demon nods. 

“And keep those hands there, yeah, Damian?” 

“Eat a dick,” comes the muffled reply from behind the coiled mass handcuffed to the radiator. 

Jason rolls his eyes, but pins the demon with a glower. “First off, you took the k- _ Damian_,” he amends at that sharp glare, and earns a nod. “Okay. Did you know he was being abused?” 

The demon’s teeth flash, sharp incisors gleaming white against the cloth gag. He nods. 

“So you kidnapped him?” 

“Tim,” Damian chirps irritably, and Jason frowns. 

“What?” 

“His name’s Tim,” Damian repeats, and something like fondness flits across the demon’s features, softening them for a moment. 

“I know what his _ vessel’s _ name is,” Jason retorts sharply, mentally aligning the abduction poster with the demon’s older, more honed face. “Suppose you kidnapped Timothy Drake too, huh?” 

A sharp shake of dark hair. 

“No?” Jason presses, irritation spiralling. “You just crammed yourself inside a thirteen-year-old boy and waltzed off while his parents were interstate, huh? No abduction necessary when the meat suit has no choice, right?” 

The demon’s gaze is blindingly hateful, and he twitches in dissent again. 

Jason barks a laugh, thumbing the safety on as he leans forward to sneer in the creature’s face, “What’s it been, demon? Two years? Is there even a shred of little Timmy left to rattle around in there? Or have you polluted his soul so badly there’s nothing left?” 

The demon shudders, cuff rattling against the radiator, hands curling like he wants to wrap them around Jason’s throat. Damian’s hands shift to wrap against his ribs, the motion comforting, and the demon heaves a stiff, calming breath. It makes Jason’s disgust flare. 

“Did you pick him because he was a hunter’s kid? Were you going to do the same to Damian too?” he taunts. “Never heard of a demon holding a vessel for longer than a few months. Must be wearing a bit _ thin _ in places, musn’t it? Is that why you’ve been _ abducting _ childr-” 

Jason’s not quite sure what happens. It moves so quickly. He hears a soft, victorious grunt from Damian, his hands flexing along those ribs like he’s reeling back from behind the demon, (like he’s yanking at something with his fucking _ mouth_) and then the gag is slipping free from its teeth. Jason’s eyes widen; he thumbs the safety on instinct as the curse rips up through the demon’s vocal chords, eyes sparking. 

The bullet doesn’t make it out of the muzzle before Jason’s finger relinquishes the trigger, a seal blossoming on the back of his hand, painted across his knuckles as they release the colt and it hits the carpet with a dull thud. Jason’s other hand’s already moving for the knife on his belt when the demon surges upwards, more spells curling off its lips as he tilts the blade and fuses his grip to the handle, as if willpower will keep it there against another curse. 

Jason hits the bedsheets with a rough grunt, feeling the demon’s knees fuse against his thighs. Clawed fingers wrap into the lapel of his leather jacket, pinning him to the bed as the other splays over his chest. “**_Still_**,” the demon orders, and against his will, Jason does. 

It’s only once the knife slides back from against the arch of the demon’s ribcage, and Jason’s entire form slumps down into the bed, that the demon exhales and shifts back into a sit. When his gaze flickers down, Jason can see a bright, blooming red seal hovering over his chest, thrumming with power. 

The demon’s expression slides from focused rage to concern, his brow pinching as he turns, reaching back for the kid. “Damian?” it calls, and Damian rises up off his knees, wandering to the side of the bed. Jason’s gaze flickers over him, but he doesn’t seem hurt. 

The demon wraps a hand around his wrist, surveying him with flitting, panicked glances. “I’m fine,” Damian assures it in a cold murmur, and gradually the creature relaxes. 

Then it turns those glowing, narrowed blue eyes on Jason. “First off,” it sneers with black ire, and grabs a hand around Jason’s unmoving jaw, shoving his head up until Jason’s staring at the bedhead. He grunts a protest, but the demon only stills to prove a point. “His name is _ Damian_, not kid. And in answer to your question, _ yes_, I knew he was being abused. That’s why I took him from those monsters. If you’d waited all of two seconds, actually _ looked_, you’d know that that’s all I’ve been doing these past years. But none of you hunters ever do want to look,” it finishes bitterly, and slides off Jason. The seal doesn’t dissipate. 

The demon stands, hand coming up to absently shake its still-cuffed wrist. The severed chain swings idly, but Jason’s gaze is fixed on his own seal, which bleeds into the demons skin and dies without a fight. It only takes a quick flick of its wrist and a twist of those long claws to snap the cuff off, and the creature lets it hit the carpet without a second thought. 

“I’m taking him to his father, if you were wondering,” it adds idly, gaze sliding down to meet Jason’s again. His body is unresponsive beneath his insistences. The demon takes no notice. “You can even check in on him when you get out of this mess, if you care that much. Should wear off in a few hours.” It casts a considering gaze down at Damian, who rises to meet it. “Raid the minibar. You’re going to need some nourishment. I’m sure he won’t mind.” 

The smile the demon throws Jason is wry, amused. Damian folds away without an ounce of hesitation, crouching to yank open the small fridge. The demon steps up to the side of the bed, beside Jason’s head. 

“We’ll take the car too,” it adds, leaning forward to fish into Jason’s jacket pocket for the keys. It pauses when it’s close enough for its breath to ghost Jason’s cheek, gaze flickering to Damian before falling, contemplative. “He wasn’t- He was barely alive when I found him. Timothy, I mean,” it admits, and Jason stiffens, gaze flickering up to fix on him. The demon doesn’t meet his gaze. “It was like they’d just left him there, forgotten him. He was so scared, in the dark. Fevered, ill. He wasn’t going to last the night. So I… I stopped it.” 

Its blue gaze hardens to the consistency of ice at the memory, and it pulls back, the keys in its fist as Damian straightens with an armful of pop and bar snacks. 

“I’m going to keep them safe. Even if that’s from their parents,” the demon says, tone dark. It makes a shiver lace down Jason’s spine. “I’ll be their guardian, if I have to. Ready, Damian?” 

The kid nods, starting for the door, and the demon pauses to glance down at Jason again, a smile tugging at its lips. 

“Until next time, hunter.” 

Jason hears the rumble of his chevy’s engine, sees the sweep of headlights through the drawn curtains from his prone position on the bed. Lies there until the dawn filters in through the windows and the spell has faded from his chest. Then he sheathes his knife, tucks away his gun, and starts up the hunt again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason: Are you listening to me? If you put _one_ hand on that demon-  
Damian: [slaps Tim]  
Jason: KID! 
> 
> I'm having fun. This was a long one, but I promised I'd cap my short stories at 5K words, and this one almost ran away from me. Sorry if it seemed to end abruptly.


	3. Paranormal Investigator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of drabbles and short stories for the [JayTimWeek](https://jaytimweek.tumblr.com) Bingo Challenge 2019.  
Prompt: "Paranormal Investigator" - Buzzfeed Unsolved AU

“I’m so nervous.” 

On the screen, two men sit in the front of an SUV, the smaller with his wrists hooked over the steering wheel. He looks pale, anxious. The larger turns with a private smile, gaze raking over him as he flicks a hand towards the windscreen and the burning auburn beyond. 

“How can you be nervous with a beautiful sunset like that?” he asks. 

There’s a definite trepidation in the smaller man’s tone. “Because I know what sits underneath it.” 

There’s a break in conversation while the taller casts his gaze over the melting sun on the horizon. The production takes a moment to flash placards beneath each man - the taller, Jason Todd, sceptic; the smaller, Timothy Drake, paranormal investigator. 

“Night-time. Darkness,” Jason croons. 

“Demons,” Tim corrects bluntly, and his brow pinches as they roll to a stop in a woodland area. He shifts the gearstick into park and sighs. “I _ hate _ demons.” 

The screen cuts to a sweeping shot of a poorly lit bridge, gleaming sea-smoothed brick backlit by the swiftly sinking sun. Girders and magnificent steel support beams glow gold under the glide of a flashlight, as Jason comes into view. 

“Hey, it’s a bridge.” 

Tim appears in the frame, looking severely distrustful and equally aggrieved. “Yeah, I can see that.” A steady heave of his chest as he surveys the undoubtedly ominous carcass of the bridge, warped by age and misuse. “There it is. Ready?” 

“Yup.” Jason’s tone betrays his nonchalance. 

“You go first,” Tim insists, his tone quick and razor sharp. Jason glances back at him, shrugs, and takes a long stride onto the uneven wood of the bridge. Then he turns, arms spread wide, to invite Tim on. “Damnit.” 

“I’m on,” Jason asserts with a curl of a grin, and beckons Tim forward with enthusiasm. The man looks hesitant for a moment, but then he steps up with a visible wince. Jason beams. “How’re you feeling? You did it.” 

Tim sighs, shoulders gradually shifting out of their aggrieved hunch. He stays rooted to the spot, within easy reach of solid, sacred ground. 

Jason, comparatively, takes a wide stroll around the mouth of the bridge, casting his gaze over the trees that infringe on the girders, wild and untamed in their neglect. 

“Well, here we are. It’s very sturdy.” 

“There’s some pretty shitty things that have happened to people on this bridge,” Tim warns with the barest irritation at Jason’s lackadaisical demeanour. 

Unfazed, Jason bounces twice on the rickety boards, which fail to bow under his considerable bulk. “Very sturdy.” 

“Can you even look just a little bit worried?” Tim presses with a furrowed brow. “Do you have to- Nevermind. Don’t do that.” 

Tim starts forwards, edging deeper onto the accursed bridge, and the view shifts to Tim and Jason now sitting on the bridge, facing the camera to invite the audience into a forum. 

“This week,” Tim introduces as the frame cuts to a bust shot, “we investigate Kane Memorial Bridge, aka the Batman’s bridge, as part of our ongoing investigation into the question - are ghosts real?” 

Off-camera, his partner gives a scathing snort. 

“_However,_” Tim stresses, casting him a sharp glance before regaining the camera’s attention, “tonight, this bridge and the land surrounding it are said to harbour something much more sinister-” 

“Demons!” Jason chirps gleefully, and Tim looks severely unimpressed beneath his shroud of unease. 

“Yeah, it’s a demon.” 

“How does it feel to sit on this bridge?” Jason niggles, gesturing broadly. He tilts back slightly in his sit, as if to encompass the whole structure with his arms as he turns to grin at Tim’s blatant unease. “Do you even like sitting-?” 

“No,” Tim snaps, glaring, “I don’t like it. So let’s just get this over with.” 

“You’ve got a glazed look in your eye.” 

“Yeah, I’m fucking nervous, babe. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.” 

Jason offers the camera a demure smile, hooking his arm around Tim’s waist. “I love it.” 

Tim looks entirely unassuaged as the screen fades into a somewhat quaint animation of the bridge, jutting out over Gotham Bay. The frame dissolves into a diagram of the bridge’s structure as an imposing narrative picks up through the speakers in Tim's attentive, speculative tone. 

_ “In 1892, the Robert H. Kane Memorial Bridge was built in Gotham, New Jersey, to connect isolated Gotham City to mainland Kane county - a tiny town known for its gambling, prostitution and violence.” _

A text exchange fills the screen abruptly, Jason’s vibrant green text venturing, “Wasn’t that the Wayne bridge?” 

“No, see, it was originally going to connect Wayne Manor to Gotham,” Tim’s answering red text postulates, “but sources say complications in the bridge’s construction resulted in it being diverted to Kane county.” 

“Complications, you say?” Jason’s voiceover murmurs with apparent interest. 

“More on that later.” 

A photo of two brothers, arm in arm, replaces the text. Both men are beaming, and behind them, the premier Gotham skyline cuts harsh and ambitious against the gathered storm clouds. 

_ “As the story goes, step-brothers Nicholas and Bradley Gates intended to construct the bridge to open thoroughfares between the mainland and Gotham, with significant funding from the city’s four most powerful entrepreneurs of the time: industrialist Edward Elliot, sitting Mayor Theodore Cobblepot, entertainment tycoon Cameron Kane, and philanthropist Alan Wayne.” _

Headshots float to the centre of the screen, blurred profile pictures of Gotham’s founding fathers. At the latter, an artificially smeared image of what can only be Bruce Wayne with an obnoxiously photoshopped moustache appears over the moniker of Alan Wayne before fading to a historical photograph of the bridge. 

_ “Initial reports praised the bridge as ‘a roaring success’ and ‘a fresh start for Gotham’. However, tensions shifted when Cobblepot, fearing that opening up Gotham to Kane county’s seething underbelly would compromise his chances for re-election, considered pulling his funding. The Elliots, who felt threatened by the Waynes’ increasing influence in the Eastern county, voted in favour of the bridge connecting to Kane county, as originally planned.” _

_ “In the end, the choice was left to Nicholas, who had frequently voiced his admiration of Alan Wayne in the past, and who chose to connect the bridge away from Kane county.” _

_ “During construction, Nicholas’ brother Bradley befell an accident while diving to inspect the bridges foundations below the waterline, when the bridge suddenly came crashing down on him. Only Bradley’s helmet was found amongst the wreckage.” _

_ “Theorists say that Kane was implicated in Bradley Gates’ murder, but due to his impressive influence within Gotham, was never trialled or publicly accused. Nicholas was labelled a ‘poor architect’, and fearing further repercussions from the public, Mayor Cobblepot fired him, and handed the project over to a private contractor. Driven by grief for his brother’s death, Nicholas attempted to avenge him by attacking Cameron Kane. However, he was shot by Robert Kane, Cameron’s son, and in the scuffle, killed him.” _

_ “We asked Mister Wayne, current member of the Crest Hill community, what he had to say about the Kane Memorial Bridge conspiracy of 1892,” _ the narrator explains as shaky, handheld footage clearly filmed through a barred gate flashes onto the screen. The unmistakable figure of Bruce Wayne in his dressing gown is visible as the lens focuses, framing the marble porch of Wayne Manor. He stares directly into the camera lens, taking a mild sip of his coffee before turning and walking inside. _ “He declined to comment.” _

_ “Today, the bridge is seldom used for vehicle crossing. But lucky for us, the bridge is available for pedestrian crossing.” _

“Lucky for us,” Jason cuts in, and his features fill the screen again. He’s leaned back on his palms now, cast in the wavering light of a fixed flashlight. 

“I don’t know why I phrased it like that,” Tim admits, the leaf of pages in his hand drooping as he looks up. “I think I was feeling brave when I wrote this.” 

“Yeah, this isn’t lucky for you at all.” 

Tim’s gaze sweeps over the imposing arch of the beams, distrustful. “In fact, I kind of wish this bridge was torn down altogether. That’s the thing about this bridge - no one knows why there’s this spectre of darkness sitting on it.” 

“Oh, you mean why the demon is here.” 

Tim fixes his partner with a stern look. “Yeah, I’m gonna try and avoid saying the word ‘demon’ as much as I can.” 

“Demon?” Jason trills. “You think a demon hears the word ‘demon’-” 

“I’m not going to let you badger me into saying it. I know what you’re trying to do.” 

“_Bat_ger you into this?” 

“Shut up. We’re moving on.” 

The frame shifts to show Jason leaning back against the SUV, obviously an earlier shot. The sun is still visible on the horizon, but the image is grainy in the dim light. 

“You know what, Tim,” Jason offers with a surprising lack of levity, “I don’t want to scare you, but,” Jason pauses to heave an afflicted sigh, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.” 

“Shut up,” Tim answers instantly, rifling through a duffel on the back seat. 

“I do.” 

“It’s okay, I came prepared.” 

“What did you come prepared with?” 

“Oh, you’ll see,” Tim purrs, straightening from his hunch. At this angle, it’s impossible to see what he’s retrieved. 

“Why are you unbuttoning your pants?” Jason asks with growing alarm. “We’re in public.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

“What are you doi- Oh, Tim,” Jason murmurs softly, and hiccups on a chuckle as Tim turns into the camera’s view, a water gun in his grip. “You’ve out-dumbed yourself.” 

Tim looks ecstatic, brandishing the gun, a dopey grin spread across his features. He twirls it on his finger once, holstering it on his belt with abundant pride. 

“There’s holy water inside here, I got it blessed by a priest. Look, now I can be like-” He effects a serious scowl, hand snapping the gun from its holster. “Don’t try it, demon!” 

Jason snorts obnoxiously. 

_ “That being said,” _ the narrator affirms as the screen sinks into gloom, _ “we didn’t travel all the way over here to observe a simple old bridge. What brings us to Kane Memorial Bridge is the meaning of its nickname - the Batman’s Bridge.” _

_ “There are several legends of bridges acting as gateways to another realm, and perhaps this bridge is one of them. This bridge, and the surrounding lands, are said to harbour a dark entity; a demon that is half bat and half man. The Batman is said to have, quote, glowing empty eyes, and bat-like wings, end quote. The reason for this entity’s existence has many iterations.” _

_ “One common story is that satanists have carried out rituals on the bridge, that opened the door for this demon, and perhaps others.” _

“There are… records of people practising rituals in this forest and on this bridge,” Tim admits reluctantly, as the screen reasserts the shot of them sitting on the edge of the bridge. 

Jason fiddles inattentively with his shoelace. “Yeah, people like you.” 

“How am I the same as a satanist?” Tim demands, incredulous. 

“Because you believe everything they believe.” 

“Yeah, but I respect it. I stay away from it. It’s the opposite-” 

Jason shrugs. “Two sides of the same coin.” 

“You’ve gotta decide which side you’re on.” 

“I am a whole other coin.” 

“Which coin would that be?” 

Jason smirks, looking reminiscent for a moment. “Just like a chill-ass, wheat back penny or something.” 

Tim’s hand lifts to pinch the bridge of his nose, and a sigh filters from between his lips. “Moving on.” 

_ “But tonight, we’re not here to determine why this demon exists. Our goal tonight is to make contact, and hopefully capture evidence of this elusive and dangerous ‘Dark Knight’, to prove that it’s real. We can only hope that evidence doesn’t come at great cost.” _

A shot of Jason in the centre of the bridge snaps into vibrant clarity. He’s transversing its width, gaze lifted speculatively to the rafters and beams as Tim trails reluctantly, shoulders stiff and spine rigid. His hand inches towards the water gun on his hip, his wide eyes restrained but alert. 

“Any demons here?” Jason calls into the cloud-swamped sky. “Have we got any demons out here tonight? Any flappy boys?” 

“Flappy boys?” Tim repeats incredulously. 

“They’ve got wings.” 

Tim shakes his head to disregard that folly, clearing his throat quietly as he draws to a halt near the centre of the empty bridge. He lifts his voice, gaze sweeping for movement as he declares, “Let your presence be known. Say something.” After a moment’s pause, he states clearly, “Why are you on this bridge?” 

When nothing emerges from the circling gloom, his lips twist in distaste, a shudder crawling up his back. Jason circles back to his side, lax, hands shoved deep in his jean pockets. Tim scowls at his apparent ease. 

“You ask questions,” he prompts. 

“Why are you on this bridge?” Jason asks, deadpan. 

Tim’s expression drains to tepid disappointment. “You have to, like, invite it to show itself.” 

“Like, provoke it?” Jason says with a note of intrigue in his tone. His gaze is bright when he turns back to glance at Tim. 

“Sure.” 

“Okay,” Jason concedes, and clears his throat, brow furrowing in concentration. The silence lingers for a poignant moment, before, “BATMAN!” 

Tim jolts at his bellow. “Dude-” 

“You feelin’ that?” Jason breathes with a mad gleam to his eyes. “You feelin’ the Batman energy?” 

“I don’t like that. I don’t like when you say his name.” 

“You getting some bat-vibes? You may not like this,” Jason warns, “I’m going to try to agitate it.” 

Tim takes a precautionary step back from the larger man, grip tightening on his flashlight. His other strokes the butt of his water gun. “You do what you gotta do. And I’ll do what I gotta do.” 

“I’m just gonna be as crude as possible here.” 

“Cool.” 

“FUCK YOU, BATMAN!” 

“_Holy _ shit, dude-” 

“Was that good?” 

“I thought you were gonna build up or-” 

“No, no, just right outta the gate. Why build up?” 

Tim looks jittery, but there’s a manic grin tugging at his lips, the torchlight drawing his sharp features in harsh contrast. “If you don’t believe,” he reasons with an edge of hesitation, “then there’s nothing for you to be afraid of, right? You could be as big a prick as you want.” 

After a moment’s suspicious contemplation, Jason lunges to his left, and Tim blanches at the sudden movement. 

“Batman!” Jason taunts with a wild grin, shifting his weight in a caricature of a dance. “I’m dancing on your bridge! It’s _ my _ bridge now.” 

“H-holy _ shit_-” 

“You hear that?” 

Tim backs away from Jason as he straightens, cocking his head in the direction of the woodland behind them. Tim’s gaze darts towards the seething mass of trees, his features looking nauseatingly pale. 

Jason casts him a wild grin, stalking across the width with purpose. There’s an aggressive lilt to his movement, gaze sharp as it sweeps across the beams. 

“If you want me off this bridge,” Jason sneers. “You’re gonna have to _ kill _ me.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“You’re gonna have to throw me off this bridge yourself!” 

“He did throw somebody off the bridge once,” Tim rushes to interject. 

“Look at the way I dance on it,” Jason goads with a bubble of laughter. “I disrespect your bridge, Batman!” 

“He’s taking names right now.” 

“You hear that, Batman?” 

“He’s sharpening his little batarangs.” 

“Me and Tim own your bridge now.” 

Tim looks instantly mortified. “No! Don’t loop me into your shit! Stop looping me, I hate when you do this.” 

Jason looks viciously victorious in the dim light. “Well, then, tell him. Tell him you’re not apart of this.” 

“I’m not part of his little charade!” Tim declares, projecting his voice across the echoing bay. 

“You’re talking to Batman now.” 

Tim seems to consider this for a moment, horror and fury sparking in his eyes as he lifts them to Jason. “... I see what you’ve done.” 

“It’s Batman entrapment," Jason says with a grin, and then frowns, adding quietly, to himself, “Batrapment?” And then, louder, his voice a carrying sing-song, “Batman?” 

“I’m not with him!” Tim declares hastily, jabbing a finger at Jason as he swivels to check the darkness at his back. 

“They’re gonna put _ my _ name in graffiti. Children will come here and tell tales of _ me_!” 

The screen cuts to an ominous black, before a caricatured pair of glowing yellow eyes emerge from the darkness. 

_ “People have reported a growling voice telling them to, quote, get off the bridge, end quote. One person said that after he and his friend heard the voice, he ran off the bridge while his friend stayed. He then reportedly watched his friend get dragged towards the railing of the bridge, and flipped into the water below.” _

_ “People have reported hearing wingbeats following them across the bridge, as if they were being chased off. It’s said that the Batman can be conjured by knocking three times on the bridge.” _

When the shot reasserts itself, Tim is standing in front of one of the center support columns. It’s rusted with age, the paint long peeled to reveal unyielding steel. Tim looks timid in contrast, his brow pinched and shoulders hunched defensively. Behind him, Jason hovers like an enthusiastic spectre. 

“Alright, Batman,” Tim murmurs, a waver muddying his words. “Goddamnit.” 

“Talking to the Batman,” Jason croons, hovering beside him like an uncontainable force. “Opening up a line of communication.” 

“Shut the fuck up. I’m gonna murder you.” And then, turning to the support beam, Tim announces, “I’m gonna knock on your bridge.” 

He hesitates for the barest moment, before reaching out to rap his white-strained knuckles against the post in three heavy taps. It echoes across the bay, the steel singing beneath the motion. 

“You know, it’s said that when you do that, you can see his glowing eyes,” Tim confesses uneasily. 

The camera pans to sweep across the bank of the river. The trees that hunch over its shores are twisted and disfigured, barely discernible in the oppressive gloom. 

“Alright, idiot. It’s your turn.” 

Jason steps up onto the lip of the bridge, bouncing his shoulders as he huffs a few quick breathes. He pauses there, weight shifting from toe to toe as he weaves his fingers together and cracks them with a solemn, determined expression. 

Tim rolls his eyes. “Oh, skip the theatrics and just get onto it.” 

“Hey Batman,” Jason hisses maliciously, and ducks to rap on the metal in a quick succession. 

Tim stiffens in anticipation. Jason casts his gaze about lazily, betrayed by the spark of intrigue in his gaze, before it lands on Tim and lifts again. 

“You know,” Jason drawls after a long moment’s silence, “if you want me off this bridge, you’re gonna have to throw me off.” 

Tim flinches, dragging his torchlight across the impassive beams and creaking deck. 

“Alright,” Tim concedes, when nothing happens. “We’ll be back for you.” 

“We’ll be back, Batman,” Jason calls. “After all, this is _ our _ bridge now.” 

“Okay,” Tim growls, forcefully dragging him off the bridge. 

“That’s how you get ‘em,” Jason declares as his boots hit the dirt path. 

“No, that’s not how you _ get them_.” 

“You gotta admit, that’s an effective-” 

“No, it’s not an effective technique,” Tim hisses. “It’s a way to get killed.” 

A contemplative pause. “He’s probably getting upset though-” 

“This is a serious thing!” 

The frame pans across the boards of the bridge, pockmarked and jagged under the harsh torchlight. 

_ “We’ll end our investigation by returning to the epicentre of the activity: the bridge. Once there, we will perform a ritual I have never attempted before in my life.” _

“Ouija?” Jason intones. “I’ve done it before. It’s a blast.” 

“I’m sure you did it as a party trick, a parlour trick. You just went down, had a couple of brewskies, thought it’d be fun to play with a ouija board.” 

Jason’s lips are slowly curling into a smile. 

“It’s not a toy,” Tim insists. 

“It is a toy.” 

“It’s made by a toy company,” Tim concedes. 

“They do sell it at Toys ‘R’ Us.” 

“True, true. But it’s not a toy. I’m just saying, I’m scared to use a ouija board in the comfort of my own home. I never thought the first time I would ever use a ouija board would be here.” 

“On a demon bridge.” 

“On a demon bridge!” Tim seems to consider this for a moment, and then lifts his gaze to the camera. “I’m about to die for the internet.” 

The screen snaps abruptly to the two men sitting in the middle of the bridge. Their forms are cast in flickering fields of candlelight, the ouija board resting innocuously between them. 

“This is a doorway we’re opening. We’re calling for everything to come here.” Tim looks jittery, his hands trembling where they hover over the planchette. 

“Is there a technique here?” Jason asks, crooking a brow as he shuffles closer to the board. 

“You just rest your hands on it,” Tim instructs, “and you kind of let your energy flow through it. And then it will start to move. Shall we just say our names, in the beginning?” 

“Sure,” Jason says, and begins to guide the planchette across the board. “My name is Jason. J-A-S-O-N. And this is-” 

“I’m Tim,” Tim interjects, and spells it out. 

He pauses to collect himself, sucking in a wavering breath as their fingers hover over the planchette. Jason’s gaze is fixed on the board, as if daring the pointer to move. Tim exhales with an air of razor sharp focus, staring intently down at their hands. 

“Is there anybody out here?” he calls, and then, with a measure of confidence, “What’s your name?” 

“Hey, you demon _ fuck!_” 

“Jesus _ Christ_. Dropped all the decorum, didn’t you?” 

“I wanted to catch him off guard.” 

Tim makes a choked sound that could be horror or amusement, gaze flicking up to Jason’s face. In the ambient candlelight, the larger man looks foreboding. Jason swivels as much as he can without parting from the planchette, glaring into the shadowed depths of the bridge. 

“If you can’t spell your name, then this bridge is officially mine. They’ll tell legends of _ me _ here. People will come here and talk about math, facts.” 

“Alright, this is your last chance, demon. If you’re here, tell us your name.” 

“And again,” Jason emphasises, “you know the deal.” 

“I guess. If you don’t tell us your name, then it’s gonna be Jason’s bridge. You know what? Fuck it. If you don’t tell us your name, it’s gonna be me _ and _ Jason’s bridge.” 

“It’s our bridge now,” Jason taunts, his leer gleaming in the candlelight. 

The trees groan ominously, the ambient music growing to a threatening crescendo. The bridge looms above them, dark and imposing. 

And then, silence. 

“Well,” Tim concludes. 

“_My _ bridge,” Jason announces. 

“Well, demon, it’s been fun,” Tim declares, pushing to his feet. “But, uh, sayonara.” 

“As we snuff these candles, so too do we snuff you from this mortal world,” Jason proclaims, lifting a candle high to blow it out. “You fuckin’ wimp.” 

“_Jesus._” 

The screen shifts to a mosaic of photographs of the bridge as the narrator concludes in a hushed, haunted tone, “_Nobody knows why the Batman, and surrounding entities haunt this area. And even though we never had a face-to-face encounter, I don’t doubt it’s existence. Either way, we’ve once again opened the door for a dark entity to enter our lives. Regardless, whether or not the Batman’s bridge is truly infested, will remain… unsolved."_

The screen fades to cloying black, the music dimming as the credits roll. Bruce leans forward to snag his cooled mug of cocoa, lifting it to his lips as he smiles, and closes his laptop screen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Next week, we investigate the Chilling Cavalcade of Suspicious Deaths at Haly's Circus._  
Jason: Wait, does this mean we're going to a circus?  
Tim: Yeah, we’re gonna investigate a circus. We’ll probably even get to see some clowns.  
Jason: I hate clowns. 
> 
> -
> 
> That’s an even three for each week now! And I’ve got most of the next week banked up, so I’m feeling great. This week is supposed to be “free week”, which I realise some authors are using this to write some goddamn awesome out-of-the-box stuff - but considering my August was screwed, I’ve elected to take this week to catch up. Next week will be No Capes! 
> 
> Keep an eye out :)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this month has been unbelievably full on, and I'm already so far behind in these short story prompts. Like, nine whole stories behind or something. So I'm going to try to use my free week to catch back up. Sorry to keep you waiting!


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